On my first day of an English composition class, the teacher asked that we write down one thing we hope to gain in the class. Most wrote the same thing: I want to become more advanced in vocabulary and its utilization in writing and verbal expression. One of the things I hear from people who make remarks about certain public speakers is: “Wow, what a magnificent vocabulary he has,” “He has a remarkable command of the English language and expressing it.” For some reason we’re wowed by people who have developed the ability to articulate their knowledge and words in a diverse and sophisticated way. In truth, however, everyone will agree that there is a state of being that we all experience that no words can ever describe. Even the most high-falutin and enlightened individual has moments in his or her life—many moments, in fact—where even with his wealth of vocabulary can’t fully or accurately paint a picture of an experience, emotion or sometimes even a thought. Not only that, but using the vernacular of any kind can be counterproductive and even cause less clarity.
The Torah describes one of the states that Aharon experienced upon hearing the tragic news of the death of his two sons: וידם אהרן, “and Aharon was silent.” We would think that perhaps the Torah should describe emotional responses like the typical ones of intense crying, maybe a state of mourning and grief, or at least describe some kind of saddened expression. Why magnify his state of “silence”?
Rav Wolbe explains that sometimes silence is more expressive than words. Someone who has difficulty remaining silent will never fully appreciate anything that he experiences. When he is awed or shaken by something that he hears or sees, he feels compelled to categorize that experience with verbal descriptions. (Think about all those times when you try to sum up an experience with the following declarations: “amazing,” “that was unreal,” “sick!” or “just horrible,” “terrible,” “depressing.”) Aharon’s silence was one where the painful experience he went through became fully internalized; it was an expression of his total acceptance of Hashem’s decree.
This “action” of silence teaches us that sometimes just letting an experience sink in and flourish within our minds and hearts can be much more impressionable. (Please note: In no way does this mean to take away the immense value and cathartitism of verbalizing and expressing one’s words and feelings in times of grief. Don’t think Aharon was a callous person: Ramban explains that Aharon indeed cried. This idea of silence in this context is simply one of the stages that—although can naturally occur—can be utilized for one to personally feel the entire spectrum of emotions, thoughts, as well as new perspectives that are borne from that experience.)
Silence also works on the positive side. In fact, when Shaul Hamelech was anointed king, he chose not to share this news with anyone (see Shmuel 1, chp. 10). Can you imagine the overwhelming excitement upon hearing that you were anointed to be king? Wouldn’t you want to share this wonderful news with everyone? But perhaps here as well Shaul understood the power of silence and how much more of an impact that joyful experience can have simply by letting it meditate within him. (Likewise, I don’t think this means to never share good personal news with people, but rather, part of the process of joyful times as well is to seal any verbal expression and just take it all in.)
The idea of silence is more powerful than we think, and surprisingly, it’s actually part of the foundations of Judaism itself. The Torah itself, the source of all existence, was given only when the world was totally quiet. The Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 29:9) writes that “not a bird chirped or flew, not an ox cried out, the Ofanim angels did not fly, the Serafim angels did not say ‘Kadosh Kadosh,’ the sea did not move, not a person spoke, but rather the world was still.” In Melachim 1 (19:11-12) it describes Hashem’s presence being found in a “soft, murmuring sound” as opposed to grandiose commotion.
Hashem’s interface is through the present, right here, right now. Connecting with that ever-constant flow can be difficult with our busy lives, but it’s possible. Even through the busyness, being focused right on the present situation—connecting directly with the given experience happening right now—is exactly how to bond with Hashem’s way of interacting directly with you and the world. It’s not uncommon for your mind to be elsewhere while involved in a given activity. But if your mind, heart and full attention aren’t focused on the activity or even inactivity that you’re experiencing, although your physical presence may be there, in truth you’re not really there at all. You may think you’re davening, but if your mind is elsewhere and not focused on the words and on standing in front of Hashem, can you really claim to be davening? If you’re sitting with your child and you’re on your phone, it’s tough to claim that you’re spending time connecting with your kid! Even when eating, if you’re not focused on the myriad of miracles Hashem lavished in the food you obtained (from taste, to color, to smell, etc.), you’re not connecting with your activity of eating. When you’re on a hike and don’t pay attention to the beauty of Hashem’s creations, for you it’s as if it doesn’t even exist. When we’re not tapped in we’re tapped out—out of the realm of reality and experience—because the real source of existence is living in the now. The lesson of Aharon’s silence is one that teaches us to silence the distractions that prevent us from fully absorbing the present experience and instead encourages us to begin to fully appreciate the present and absorb and learn from it that which we can.
By Binyamin Benji
Binyamin Benji learns in Yeshivas Rabbeinu Yitzchak Elchanan. He holds an MSW and is the author of the weekly Torah Talk in the Sephardic Congregation of Paramus’ newsletter. He can be reached at [email protected].
